


Northern Sunset

by HAL_berd



Category: Brave Frontier
Genre: But I'm doing it anyways, I can't name all the characters, Multi, Pairings not yet decided, nobody asked for this, sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5996826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HAL_berd/pseuds/HAL_berd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The retelling of Atro's lore that absolutely nobody asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vanira Village

    The alchemist opened her door despite the rain, and quickly waved him into the warm fire-lit cabin. Disapproval was evident in the crinkle of her brow, the crossing of her arms over her engorged stomach, for Atro looked and smelled to all like a drowned rat. Gaunt, shivering, hair plastered to the sides of his cheeks. His monk's habit made a quarter of his frame.

    He shuffled to a chair and collapsed into it, chest gently rising and falling, eyes fixed someplace just above the fire, as he attempted to catch his breath. His long clothing had tracked mud into the building. How bothersome.

    "Look what the cat dragged in," she stated dryly, but her voice betrayed a small measure of concern for the young man. "One o' the friar's orphans, I take it?"

    Atro nodded, eyes drooping, but he sat up to show that he was still alert. "Aye, ma'am, one o' Father Francis'." His voice was hardly a whisper, so soft and smooth. Exhaustion shone through every one of his half-lidded movements as he slowly straightened out his wrinkled and dirtied habit. "Horribly sorry, ma'am," he continued, "fer all o'... this." Vaguely, he gestured at the rainwater and the mud on the floor.

    She shook her head. "Quite alright, m'child. I've had much worse." Slowly, she made her way to the fireplace, hand placed protectively above her baby bump. After a few minutes, a warm clay cup of tea was pushed into the young man's cold hands.  Atro took a sip, perhaps a little unprepared for the hearty, earthy flavor, but it warmed him on the way down. After reveling in the heat for a second, he gave a small thanks, but the woman just waved it off.

    "You looked like you were about to freeze to death, all skin and bones," she stated. "Just gave you a little something to warm you up is all. What's brought you here?"

    The young man just shook his head wearily, placing his mug onto a nearby table. The tapping of rain upon the wooden planks of the alchemist's served to juxtapose the tense silence in the room. "The rain's been rough fer Vanira, and we've not enough to feed and warm ourselves," he stated quietly. "We've all been very weak, so...The friar's fallen ill, ma'am, and so've some of my little brothers and sisters."

    "So you've come to me for a couple o' tonics, is that all?" He nodded. "What's the big deal? You look like you're about to step into the river."

    "Well'm, we've nothing to pay ye with this time," Atro admitted, fiddling with the muddy hem of his monk's habit. "But we really, really need the tonics. Father Francis has gone delirious."

    Silence. The alchemist sighed and pulled up a chair opposite to him, slowly easing herself down into the seat with a hand gripped firmly on the back. She looked into his eyes and steeped her fingers.

    "I'm sorry about Francis." Her tone was very sympathetic, but a hard edge foretold an upcoming bit of pragmatism. "However, I'm hesitant to admit that with Vanira's current downpour and with this little one-," she patted her stomach, "-coming up, I cannot afford to hand out potions for free."

    Atro nodded, solemn. "I understand. 'M very sorry, ma'am."

    She held up a hand. "Wait, let me finish, boy." His back seemed to straighten at those words. "There've been many orders like this from the rest of the village and I've not the health to venture into the rain myself. On top of that, my husband's riding to Meseriah for food and supplies." Perhaps he brightened too soon. "If you do my deliveries for me and collect the gold, I'll give you all the tonics you need."

    He breathed, hand carding tiredly through his tangled golden hair. "How many deliveries do I need to run?"

    She pointed to a large box of pouches.

    Worry glowed in his eyes. A minute spent here was a minute more of misery for those at the monastery. "Up front?"

    The alchemist looked down and fiddled with her gown. "Yes. Apologies."

 

 

    When he returned for the last time, it was hours later. His habit was soaked through and draped across the chair he had previously sat in. His complexion had gone deathly pale; he was shivering, numb all over. Wheezing for breath, Atro leaned against the wall near the fire for support, eyes closed, and waited for the alchemist to slowly make her way to his side.

    "What about that one?" she queried when he'd finally caught his breath again, gesturing towards the pouch he'd dumped on the floor.

    He gently lowered himself to the ground and leaned his head back. "They...they didn' need it anymore," the young man breathed out, voice croaky and soft. "The gold's going to the gravedigger when the rain's stopped."

    Silence. The alchemist quietly poured him a cup of tea and handed it to him with a dry towel. "Who was it?"

    He draped the towel around his shoulders and took the cup in his cold hands. It took a second for him to answer. "The miller, ma'am," he said. "Gone to fever."

    She sighed and gingerly took a seat on a chair in front of the fireplace, hand rubbing at her forehead. "If I'd known it were that bad, I'd have gotten it to him earlier."

    He shook his head. "Ye've a little babe to think o', ma'am."

    The alchemist nodded slowly, as if the thought pained her. They sat there together in silence for a minute, Atro occasionally sipping at his tea, until, as if possessed, he sprung to his feet again, a frantic expression alighting his face.

     "Oh no, the Friar! My brothers and sisters!" His voice was filled with a panicked worry and self-hatred. "How could I've forgotten? I need to get them the tonics!"

    "Calm down, boy, you can have them," the alchemist stated patiently. "I have some bottled near the hydrangeas. Take as many as you need."

    With a burst of energy he wasn't aware he had, Atro rushed to the hydrangeas on the table and picked up five bottles, throwing on his habit on the way to the door. He hastily called out a "thank ye" and "godspeed" before rushing out into the pelting rain.

**End**


	2. Brother To The Motherless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where characters you don't care about do things you don't care about to offer emphasis for future events that you, still, probably won't care about. Basically, the boring chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General note for the entire first part of this story. This stuff is pretty self-explanatory, but I want to make this less annoying for you. When a character uses "ye," it doesn't sound like "yee." It's a very short tone, sort of like the "eh" in "meh" crossed with the sound "uh." The word "you" will only be used in dialogue for these first few chapters when emphasis is placed on that word or if that person comes from the city, like the sorceress and the good friar. And "o'" isn't "oh," but "uh," because it's used as the first part of the word "of."

    From the lightning-pierced darkness of night outside, the wind shoved him through the monastery doors as much as he walked in himself, bringing stones of rain upon the oak floor. As much as he wished to collapse where he stood, coughing rang sharply through the small hallway, the sound of illness and misery permeating the air like fog—near tangible. His aching legs could wait.

    Atro threw his muddy monk's habit into a tub to wash later and made his way to the hearth to rekindle the fire. These types of tonics needed preparing, at least from what he remembered, so he set the kettle to boil. _Perhaps I should've been quicker about the deliveries_ , he thought to himself as he stumbled towards the children's rooms to check on his brothers and sisters.

    He righted himself as he came to a treacherous stretch of floor, crept carefully around the rotted floor boards that he would soon have to find the time to fix, hoping against hope that the little ones he'd put up to the task had been able to properly care for the ill in his absence. Hesitant, he rounded the corner.

    He needed to have more faith in his brothers and sisters.

    The three unafflicted by maddening fever sat diligent, little six and seven-year-olds dedicating an amount of attention rarely given to anything but the river frogs (who were undoubtedly enjoying the flooding of the river Knire). They were so focused in watching over their peers, in fact, that they failed to notice Atro slipping into the room and practically falling cross-legged beside them (he even yawned) until, that is, he spoke.

    "How're you doing?" The three started visibly at his voice—a voice so grainy and hoarse from the cold as to be nearly unrecognizable. Fearful, the children (a boy and two girls) whipped towards the direction of the sound, almost pouncing on the slouched drowned rat of a teenager who sat so close to them.

    "Brother!" one of the girls—Beck—exclaimed, eyes brimming with relief. "Ye've come back! Ye'd been gone fer so long, we'd thought ye'd been eaten by one o' the rain monsters!"

    Atro raised an eyebrow, slightly bemused. "Rain monsters?"

    "Charles's been mutterin' 'bout rain monsters fer the past ferever," the boy stated quietly. "An' when Em fell asleep, she started too."

    "I see," the eldest male breathed. He fought to keep his eyes open, even upon the splintery wooden floor. "An'... How's Father doing?"

    "He's been awake," the other girl, Sable, replied. "Says he's too 'fraid o' goin' back to sleep."

    Atro shook his head, half out of worry and half to keep himself from drifting off. "...Do any o' ye—," he coughed to clear his throat, "—Ahem, do any o' ye know where the other kettle is? I've got the tonics, we just need to prepare them."

    "Issin Father's room," Beck said. "An' what took ye so long, Brother? We'd thought the worst."

    He sighed as he pulled himself back onto his feet with the help of a chair and started towards the door. "Had to work for the medicine. We've none o' the good silver these days."

 

    Atro had been living with the friar for nearly all of his fifteen years. Francis was more his father than whoever his true father actually was. The man was infallible in many ways—he possessed a sharp wit but dulled it with a kind patience and charitable zeal paralleled by none. Yet in many other ways, being an aging man, Francis was frail.

    Imagine Atro's worry when the man began to skip meals to feed his collection of orphans, Atro's "brothers" and "sisters," and finally collapsed into bed one night with Rain-fever, pelting downpour only serving to drive in the grime and the cold and remind them exactly who ran this show in the spring. And it spread, that Rain-fever, to four of his siblings, their pained coughs rattling the entirety of each shaking body, bringing with it symptoms like gagging and vomiting, sneezing, coughing, headaches, bloody noses and, if they hadn't been properly supervised, dehydration, ironically. Atro was the eldest orphan. They were his responsibility and his to take care of alongside the good friar.

    He padded softly into the small room that Father Francis had laid claim on, hoping not to disturb his guardian, but alas, as he gripped the handle of the kettle, the lump on the bed shifted with a creak. He froze, one hand upon the metal, as the friar turned towards him and gave a small, tired smile. The man's eyes were ringed with red, skin sagging more than its normal degree. Exhaustion.

    "Atro?" His voice was a rasp, even more so than usual. "...You look terrible, boy."

    That brought a grin to the blonde teen's face. He picked up the kettle proper and sat at the friar's bedside. "What? Am I pale?"

    "Perhaps, yes," Francis stated, "but I can hardly tell underneath all that mud." Atro frowned as a bout of painful, wheezy coughing racked the elder's frail frame. "...hhh... Excuse me, m'boy."

    "There's nothing to be excused, Father," the young man replied. "Yer health is o' utmost importance."

    Francis hummed. In the small period of silence, Atro tentatively poked at his own cheek. Indeed, it was caked with a healthy dose of mud. Huh. He'd hardly noticed.

    "The children told me you were frantic when you left," the friar stated, only slightly wheezing.

    "Aye, quite."

    "Then," he continued, "what has you so calm?"

    Atro thought on that for a second. "Perhaps I haven't got the energy," the young man answered, contemplative. "Or perhaps it's because water doesn't boil quicker with panic."

    The friar sighed and closed his eyes, quietly muttering, "Wise words for one so young, boy." Then, louder, "I hear the kettle whistling. Go tend to the others before you come to me."

    The blonde yawned and nodded, making it to the door with but a stumble and leaning against the door frame for a second to regain his balance. Once out in the hallway, he stuck his head into the children's room.

    "Sister Beck, Brother Noah, would ye like to help me prepare the tonics?"

    The two hastily nodded, springing to their feet to bolt towards the main room and the hearth. But little Sable looked up at him with large eyes. "What 'bout me?"

    Atro gently tucked a lock of the child's hair behind her ear as he replied, "We'll only be a couple o' minutes. I know it's scary being the only one awake here, but please watch your siblings; we'll be right back."

    The girl nodded, and Atro jogged to the table where Beck was placing the little clay bowls they'd made together two seasons ago. He thrust the empty kettle into her hands.

    "Could ye go fill this one up and put it o'er the fire? We'll need a second dose in an hour or two." Beck nodded and scampered off towards the tub of clean water they kept near the corner of the altar. "How's that kettle, Noah?"

    The boy had just finished getting the other kettle off the fire with a poker. He then wrapped the handle in cloth and gingerly carried it to the table, where Atro was already pouring one-third-bottle doses into each of the nine bowls. "Nice an' hot, Brother Atro."

    "Good." Atro took the boiled kettle from Noah, grunting at the weight. "Have ye gotten stronger, Noah, or is this just me?"

    The boy looked concerned. "...I think yer jus' tired," Noah stated. "Shouldn't ye be resting, brother?"

    Atro shook his head and began to shakily pour hot water into each bowl. The original green of the tonics swirled into turquoise, then a dark navy blue. "I'll see to it that everyone's cared for first." He placed the now empty kettle down and called Beck over from where she stood at the hearth, another kettle-full of water hanging over the fire. "Help me carry five o' these to the others."

    He handed one of the bowls to Noah, who went scampering off for the friar's room. He and Beck carried four towards the children's room.

    "What 'bout the other four bowls, Brother? The ones still on the table?" she queried, head cocked slightly to the side as they walked slowly, careful not to spill. "Why do we need so many?"

    Atro shook his head. "Those're fer the four of us who didn't get sick," he stated. "It's to keep us from catching the tail-end of it."

    Beck stuck her tongue out. "But this stuff tastes bad."

    "'m glad ye remember from last year," Atro stated dryly, finally reaching the door. From the other side of the hallway, he could already hear Noah coaxing Father Francis into drinking the tonic. "And aye, it does taste bad, but bear with it. At least we don't have to take the second dose."

    The two of them crept into the room, quietly making their way to each bed. Atro placed one of the bowls on a table as he knelt beside a boy, nine years old, and gently shook him awake. "Charles," he coaxed. "Wake up. I've got ye some medicine."

    With a groan, the boy shifted in his bed, underneath covers that looked too thin. Atro shook him again, and finally, the boy sluggishly turned towards him, eyes underlined by deep, pronounced bags and nose red with sniffling. "Brother Atro?" His voice was nasally and tired. A small track of rust-colored blood ran from his nostrils to his chin, dry but present.

    Atro helped Charles into a sitting-up position and placed the bowl of tonic in his hands. "Can ye drink this on yer own?"

    The boy nodded slowly, eyes half-lidded. "Aye...I think so," he answered softly. Then a pause. "Why're ye covered in mud?"

    "The rain."

    Charles' eyes widened. "Rain monsters?"

    Atro gave him a comforting smile. "There are no rain monsters, Charles. Now drink up."

    He sat there until the boy began to drink, nose crinkling at the distinctly bitter taste and slimy texture. Then, the blonde stood to reach for the bowl he'd previously placed aside, but Sable had already given it to Brother Eli. Atro surveyed the room. Em, Eli, Belle, and Charles, all four of them had their dose of medicine, and Beck had just then entered the room with two of the remaining four bowls.

    She offered both to Sable. "Drink one yerself, and could ye give the other to Noah when he gets here?" The younger girl nodded, eyes wary at the prospects of downing the horrid tonic. But nonetheless, she took a sip, tentatively, and kept it down.

    Atro went out to get his own bowl, and Beck followed him unprompted. They could still hear Noah exchanging words with Father Francis in the other room as they made their way towards the living room and hearth.

    When they got there, Atro pulled up two chairs and unceremoniously collapsed into one of them. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Outside, in the cold dark of night, rain pounded against the roof, lightning flashed and thunder rang, like it had for almost a week now.

    It took a minute for Beck to say anything. "...Are ye sleepin', Brother Atro?"

    "Nay, just resting," he stated softly. "...Go ahead and drink. I'll be fine in a second or two, mayhap."

    "I'll drink when you drink," was her immediate response.

    Atro sighed and, with quite some effort, opened his eyes. With even more of a strain, he pulled himself back to an upright sitting position and picked up his bowl. Playfully, he cuffed the girl on the ear once. "Never gonna let me rest, you..." As she giggled in her chair, he handed her the last bowl of tonic. He clinked his bowl to hers. "Cheers."

    And, with oblivious bravado, he downed it all in one draft.

    ...And immediately clutched his mouth shut as he started coughing.

    Beck put her tonic on the table and started patting his back, concerned and confused. "Why'd ye do that?"

    He leaned back, still clutching his throat. "I...I didn't know..."

    "Ye don't remember what it tastes like?"

    "...Wouldn't've done it if...I did..." he forced out, slightly embarrassed. Beck began to giggle once again.

    Noah had chosen this moment to enter the living room, a small smile on his face. Atro spotted him out of the corner of his eye and beckoned him closer. "Did ye drink it all at once, Brother Atro?"

    Despite the bitter taste lingering on his tongue and the exhaustion in his limbs, he found the will to grin. "Aye."

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me while I get this out of my system.


End file.
